


Windows Operating System

by KittyViolet



Category: New Mutants (Comics), Star Trek: The Original Series, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute Ending, Dimension Travel, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, Omorashi, Puns & Word Play, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22212391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Summary: “You found the vibrator dimension.”“A vibrator dimension,” Illyana corrects her lover. “There may be others.”“This is the only one I need. For now.”
Relationships: Kitty Pryde/Illyana Rasputin
Kudos: 5





	Windows Operating System

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Days of Future Middle-Age series, in which our Kate and Illyana are a long-term couple teaching at a future school.
> 
> Omorashi is a sexual interest in wetting, holding, desperation, or having to go. If that sort of thing repels you, hey, don't like? don't read. (If you're indifferent to it, but you like this ship, there's more to enjoy in this story.)

Kitty was up very late programming last night, and she doesn’t teach today, so she took a nap this afternoon: she had that dream that Illyana was keeping her magically immobilized in the hammock, telling her just what she could and couldn’t do, so that she needed permission for even the simplest things, like whether to speak, whether to touch herself, whether to roll over, whether to open her eyes. It’s her favorite recurring dream: when you’re a teacher for that long, and then you’re the Red Queen and a pirate ship’s captain, and then you command a small fleet, and then you’re a teacher again on top of that (Krakoa did, after all, need a school), of course you’re going to want your lover to take all your control away from you. (It’s not really an “of course.” It just feels that way.)

She’s still in her pink-and-blue button-down PJs, swinging back and forth in her hammock, with her nose in a very good book (a space opera: The Intersectional Stars), with a travel mug of iced tea in her free hand, when Illyana walks in.

“Notice anything different about our suite, lover?” Illyana asks. She’s probably just come from teaching, since she’s wearing a slinky pantsuit, the one that Kitty once said reminded her (Kitty) of the White Queen. Illyana had smirked and said nothing, almost as if the reminiscence were intentional. 

"Kitty?" Only Illyana is allowed to call her Kitty aloud, but sometimes she still calls herself Kitty in her thoughts. Thoughts are funny things.

Kitty phases out of the hammock, lands on her feet, looks around, and closes her eyes so that when she opens them she can compare the room she sees to the room in her memory. Same quilt, same shelves, same pair of desks, same monitor, same door to the walk-in-closet, same door to the newly-scrubbed bathroom, same pair of nests under the bed and in the window, same window, another window, another…

“This morning our bedroom had two lovely windows,” Kitty says. “Now we have four. Are you a sword lesbian or a general contractor?”

“Little of both,” Illyana shrugs. “I’ve been experimenting with keeping simultaneous portals open, and with keeping them open for longer. Turns out I can do it but only if I conjure a frame. Like a window. Want to open one and see what’s inside?” She smiles. It’s a mischievous smile.

“Do they go to other places on Earth? Or to Limbo?”

“Some of both. But not the scarier parts of Limbo. Just…. some places I found. Each with its own properties for the viewer.”

“It’s a trap,” Kitty says, doing her best Admiral Akbar. “Wait, is it a trap?”

“Think of it as a series of experiments.”

“I’ll join your lab for that,” Kitty says. She regards Illyana’s hip-hugging pants and low-cut vest, comparing them in her mind to her own fuzzy sleepwear. The vest does as much to show off Illyana’s muscles—that girl works out!—as to highlight her cleavage.

Kitty opens the turquoise curtains over the first anomalous window, a small dormer that reminds Kitty intensely of the first room she and Ilya shared. Even more so once she leans forward and looks into the window: on the other end, she sees… that same room, with her teenage self entangled with Illyana, both fully clothed, both on the same twin bed. Younger Kitty seems to be whispering something to younger Illyana. Her brown curls overlap with the blond girl’s sweater.

“Are we looking back in time?”

“Indirectly, yes. I found a part of Limbo that’s a temporal scrying pool and we’re looking through that. Do not go in. Do not touch.”

“Younger Kitty seems to be doing all the touching for me.” The two of them are shifting position, then kissing, then…

“Is this ethical?” Kitty asks. Illyana grins. Kitty closes the curtains and the window winks out of existence, leaving bare plaster walls and a sturdy wainscot. Adult Illyana and adult Kitty regard each other. They’re both grinning.

“Apparently that window has some euphoric effects. They can affect your physical body a little, those portals. Or maybe—“

“Maybe just seeing ourselves that way is delightful.” Kitty pauses as her hand reaches her lover’s hand. “It’s the first time we were happy.”

“Not the last.”

Kitty tugs Illyana’s hand so that they both shift over a couple of paces to the other anomalous window. This one’s a big rectangle with an orange windowshade, all the way down, and a leather cord. Kitty pulls on the cord and the shade zips rapidly up.

The two mutant teachers are pummeled with noise and confusion, thirty or forty people, or rather sentient bipedal entities, speaking and yelling and drinking and singing at once. One of them looks a bit like Admiral Akbar, Kitty notices, but that’s just because about five of them have squid-like heads. There’s definitely a Klingon , holding a tumbler half-full of whiskey—no, he’s pouring the whiskey on somebody’s head.

In the same window two humans, both over six feet tall, both with shaved heads, are fighting, or wrestling, or carrying out a violent performance piece, in a struggle for the karaoke machine. It’s all too loud and too crowded even through the interdimensional windowpane. Two kinds of music are playing, in different time signatures. One’s electronic; the other has a tuba, or maybe the Shi’ar instrument called a kfloodarc, which sounds like a tuba immersed in tapioca. The music stops and the hubbub still hurts Kitty’s ears.

Illyana pulls down the shade. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That one leads to the party dimension.”

Kitty shudders. “It’s OK. At least it’s proof of concept. What other dimensions can you—can we access? anything we can use to keep the world safe?” Then their eyes lock. “Anything fun?”

“Give me some time.”

*

Kitty gets up early the next day and can’t come back to their suite until evening, which is what Illyana wants: when Kitty does show up there’s gold and silver sand around the door and the doorknob sticks a little, and the air shimmers when Kitty walks into their room. Illyana’s been casting spells.

She’s also in costume, W-shaped headdress and all.

“You’re ready to go somewhere,” Kitty says.

“I’ve been going places and coming back here. Look around.” Illyana begins to make a semicircular take-it-in gesture with her tail, while keeping her hands on her hips. She’s proud of her work.

The window to the party dimension is gone, but the turquoise dormer window is back. Kitty’s curious but Illyana blocks her. “I’d wait a bit before opening that one again.”

Only then does Kitty finish her travel mug (iced tea again) and look around their bedroom: at least ten new windows, from a magnificent gingerbread concoction with drapes to a nautical porthole. There’s almost no bare wall space left.

“Did you run out of room?”

“Out of time. Try this one first.” Illyana pulls up a fuzzy tan shade and several puppies stick their heads or necks or front paws out. Lockheed wheels and dips to investigate, nearly buzzing a spaniel’s floppy ears.

“Puppy dimension!” Kitty exclaims.

“Beats the party dimension hollow. Don’t worry, you won’t get a puppy for Christmas.”

“Puppies are forever,” Kitty half-hums. “Not for Christmas.”

“These are forever in Limbo. They like it there—lots to chase. You can touch them while they visit you, though. Go ahead.” The spaniel starts to lick Kitty’s hand, then keeps on licking. Kitty scratches the dog, who starts panting. A much bigger dog, black and sleek like a sable calligraphy brush, ambles into the foreground and sticks out a head, then starts licking Kitty too, looking up at her with wide golden eyes.

“Poor things, they want food!” Kitty says, turning back to Illyana.

“They always do.” Zip! the narrow window, almost a castle-style slit, beside the puppy-dimension window opens, and it’s a slot full of kibble. “This is the puppy food dimension. When you feed them the puppy food goes back into Limbo, so there aren’t problems with mass-energy conservation. You can take things out of the windows and bring them into our world as long as you put them back, or if they dissolve or disappear in our world. Just don’t leave crumbs.”

Kitty happily lets the big pup and the small one, and a retriever-sized red-haired pup that joins the others, nibble kibble out of her open hand. She goes through a couple of handfuls and then takes her palm away, letting the pups get distracted and wander off. The retriever whines first, so Kitty scritches that dog under the neck, scruffing up the fur slightly: Lockheed appears to blow that dog a kiss, and the dog barks once, happily, while retreating.

“Are they all this G-rated?” Kitty asks, placing one hand on her hip.

Magik smiles. The next window’s circular, and large, its white covering bearing almost illegible markings: Kitty can make out an N and a 17, if the markings are Roman alphanumeric. She looks closer: not Krakoan: either Roman or Cyrillic. (Her Krakoan still isn’t great.) She swings wide the cover and peeks inside: fuzzy furry objects, the smallest the size of baseballs, the largest no bigger than soccer balls, chirp inside. A few fall out. The ones that aren’t chirping are purring. Kitty picks up a few and strokes them. They’re pleasing and calming. Then she realizes what they are.

“A most curious creature, Captain,” Kitty recites. “Its trilling seems to have a tranquilizing effect on the human nervous system. Fortunately, of course, I am immune to its effect.” She keeps stroking the fuzzy things, almost humming with the low-key pleasure that stroking them brings.

Illyana grins. Kitty holds one tribble, then two, then three, up close to Illyana’s face, to see if they have the same effect on her. They do, or else it’s just Kitty’s joy spilling over. Is it the feeling of stroking a soft furry object, or the pleasure of feeling understood?

“Try this one next. Wait, don’t. Change into PJs first.”

Kitty phases off her black-and-yellow office-wear, takes an extra minute to untie her red bandanna (she is still the Red Pirate Queen, after all), keeps her pearl-shiny white underwear on, and wriggles into the pink-and-blue flannel bedroom set from yesterday. Then she opens the Venetian blind.

It’s an aquarium, blue-green and rippling, water extending almost all the way up to the top of the portal-window plane, with rocks and fish and seaweed like bonsai. No. It’s like an aquarium, but the water extends farther than she can see, in all directions except the one blocked by the window. Kitty and Illyana watch the approach of a whole shoal of pretty, wriggly, fish. No, they’re amphibians. No, they’re…. what are they? Lockheed closes in to this window, then snorts steam and drifts away back up to the ceiling. (Whatever’s swimming around in there isn’t for him.)

“You can touch them too,” Illyana says, standing behind Kitty so that the Jewish American mutant stays between the Russian one and the window. Or the “window,” since whatever’s there isn’t glass or Plexiglass. It’s a gluey membrane that Kitty can plunge her hand right through. 

“Don’t phase,” Illyana says. “You can stick your hand in anyway. You can phase if you like when you’ve got them to bring them out.” And Kitty takes one of the not-fish in one hand, with a pleasing thrill—they wriggle!—and another one in her other hand, so that she’s got both not-fish, with their triangular fin-shapes, in her self-descriptive tattooed fingers: HOLD FAST, the tats say, and she does, bringing both not-fish back out, dripping with fresh water, into their room. She phases herself and the not-fish until Illyana can throw a towel underneath her, and then she lets herself turn solid again…

…and promptly throws one of the not-fish at Illyana, who catches it. “Oh!” Illyana says, touching the fins of the not-fish with the tip of her tail, brought up to chest level. “Good sharing.”

“I like sharing, roomie,” Kitty says. The not-fish are vibrating, making a low, happy hum on the same note, same frequency. Kitty lifts hers to her ear and listens and then thinks she’s figured it out. The hum has its own effect on her. It’s a lot more intense than the tribbles.

Still holding the not-fish, she drops to her knees and holds it between her own thighs, then begins to lick the top of Illyana’s left boot, Illyana’s knees, Illyana’s thigh. “Stroke my hair,” Kitty says. “Mmmm.” Other not-fish splash and swirl behind her.

The not-fish aren’t just vibrating; they are vibrators, shaped very much like the tip of Illyana’s tail, but larger, made of a similar biological-eldritch material, able to get soft or hard. “You found the vibrator dimension.”

“A vibrator dimension,” Illyana corrects her lover. “There may be others.”

“This is the only one I need. For now.” The triangle gets more agitated inside, shifting its flapping motion so that the action's not visible from the outside, over her PJs, over her panties; instead, Kitty feels the vibrator-from-a-happy-Limbo-ocean inside her lips, shallowing, parting her only slightly, going slow and then fast at the edge of her as her body relaxes and opens up to let whatever the vibrator wants to do in. Can the vibrator phase itself? Did she phase it, to let it find its way inside her? Shallow penetration, shallow, a rhythm, the fins, she's between the fins. Illyana can place her hand between the fins. Then Kitty’s thrown back, almost knocked over, by a wash of pleasure that comes from between her legs, shaping itself around her body, over her PJs: it’s humming in counterpoint to Illyana’s, like the two objects—they’re made things; they’re creations—want to speak with each other, to meet each other.

“You must have worked hard to find this dimensions and keep it open—“ Kitty says, and then she’s unable to speak. The vibrations are pulsing through her, as she stays on her knees, looking up to Illyana’s smile, to Illyana’s sleek black costume, to the intertwined triangles of tail-end and not-fish.

“Very hard,” Illyana says, looking down. “The work was very hard.” 

“Oh!” Kitty arches backwards, still on her knees, to see Illyana’s fierce grin as Kitty keeps her hand up on her lover’s crotch, pressing forward with help from the not-fish, until Illyana has to sit down on their bed.

Then Kitty stumbles to her feet: she isn’t ready to come yet, and she’s close enough that she wants to give her flapping vibrator from the underwater vibrator dimension a rest. Illyana stands to kiss her lover, quickly, sweetly, then returns to the bed, taking up the pose of an odalisque. Kitty shakes out the sleeves and pants legs in her flannels, holds on to Illyana, and opens another window beside their bed: the blinds on this one, rising slowly, sparkle in the evening light, like weak sun.

“You might want to know what that one does first—“ Illyana stops short, because Kitty’s already got the blinds up most of the way; the sunlight was coming from Limbo, from the other side of this interdimensional window, and the bit of Limbo on which this sun shines could almost be a hops field, or some other tall and ungainly crop: green stalks from which dangle bubbles, so many bubbles, blue and gold and red and pink and pale green bubbles, and Kitty wants to reach out and take one, or touch one, even more urgently than she wants Illyana’s hand between her own thighs.

She takes a few in her hand, and brings them into the bedroom, where they weigh almost nothing; they pop.

“This part of Limbo grows bioactive plants. They do stuff to you,” Illyana says. “Stuff I thought you’d like.” She’s smirking, because Kitty has turned around to face Illyana, and she still has her hand between her legs, but she’s let the not-fish flap away, flying—so they can fly!—unsteadily back into its underwater dimension.

And now Kitty looks both happy and uncomfortable. And she’s finding it hard to speak. “I have to….”

“Have to what?” Does Illyana really know what those particular bubble-plants can do? Kitty can’t bring herself to ask. She can’t phase, either. Or rather, she can, but it won’t help: she’ll just have to go, just as bad, the moment that she turns solid again, and the pain is… a kind of pleasure, too: there’s suddenly intensifying pressure on her bladder, which is next to her… next to her…. anatomy… all that iced tea before…

There’s a very obvious pun about plants and pods but Kitty won’t make it. She also won’t make it to their bathroom, at this rate. “Ilya, what did you do?” she stutters, realizing that it’s fun to hold it, even while it’s no fun to hold it: she’s going to lose it. She’s going to lose it and wet on the floor. But she can’t: she just can’t. The throbbing between her legs is something new, pleasure and un-pleasure at once: some external force, not her, not her, decides what happens to her body, and the surrender itself feels good.

“When you’re ready to go,” Illyana says, and she stands by the golden window, “pick the green one.” 

Kitty drops to her knees again, looking up at her lover, imploringly, hearing her words through a tunnel of excitement and desperation. She clutches her crotch and grins. She’ll try to hold it a little longer: the urgency, the frustration, can be delicious. Illyana likes watching her get to that edge.

Then she’s stretching her arm out into the window again, into the field of bubbles that sway on stems, picking a pink one first, and she’s quivering, walls inside her are getting delightfully bendy, she’s shivering, she’s ready to fall right into herself and let Illyana tell her it’s OK, but she can’t, she can’t let it go and wet herself, it’s just physically and magically impossible—

through some kind of pink fog Kitty hears Illyana saying, almost sarcastically this time, “when you’re ready,” and Kitty reaches into the green field and picks a green bubble of its stalk and pulls the thin fruit out its window into our world—

and then she can wet herself, suddenly and catastrophically, except it feels good, it’s giving up all her control to what her body wants, and to what her lover demands, her legs are warm and cold and wet and it’s a good thing these PJs are machine- or magic-washable because they’ll be soaked through in about a minute, she can’t stop once she starts, it feels so shameful and so classically submissive and so helpless and so good, it all runs down her leg so fast, and now Illyana is holding Kitty and wrapping her in a dry, fluffy towel and opening another window so there’s a warm, clean mist in their room, and then the mist swirls out of the room from the cleansing shower dimension and back into that dimensions and Kitty climbs into her other flannel PJs, the ones with the tiny buttons instead of the giant ones, and she still feels helpless, in the best possible way, and she sinks to her knees again and closes her eyes and lies down and folds herself up in her lover, and when she comes again, much later, half asleep, clenching and unclenching and opening herself up in Illyana's arms, it’s as much about trust as it is about joy. Joy and trust. Trust and joy. Joy and knowing your body is where it should be.

Much later they’re both in bed, reading and cuddling side by side, with all the windows closed. “A pea plant? with pea pods? really? What are you, the Queen of the Limbo of Bad Puns?”

Illyana gives Kitty that snarky smile again. “You’re lucky I didn’t find you a mug of Krakoakoa. Or a dimension with fruit trees for pirates.”

“Starrrrr-fruit,” says Kitty, scowling. “Carrrrambolas.” Illyana rolls her eyes.

“I know how you feel about coffee,” Kitty says. “Maybe tomorrow morning we can find the coffee dimension?”

“Already on it,” Illyana says, and Lockheed returns from the rafters, and they settle in for the night.


End file.
